


Intermission

by ijustwanttodestroy



Category: Nightwing (Comics), Titans (Comics)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Banter, Character Study, Humor, M/M, Relationship Study, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-29 01:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19819705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ijustwanttodestroy/pseuds/ijustwanttodestroy
Summary: Stately, the stranger came down the stairhead with a sort of charming panache — and most urgently, eyes locked down to his like a gun. Or an arrow.(In which they flirt, but very, very strangely.)





	Intermission

**Author's Note:**

> _Having pointless conversations with your best friend that no one else understands._  
>  -justgirlythings

Stately, the stranger came down the stairhead with a sort of charming panache — and most urgently, eyes locked down to his like a gun. Or an arrow. Dick’s mouth flattens itself to a thin line, batting off a smile. He can act, and very well at that.

The stranger slides down beside him, the way he holds his flute is roguish, like he doesn’t care if the champagne spills. The stranger offers him a lopsided, full-lipped smile. “Have we met?” the man says, with a tone that suggests it’s an opening to a racier conversation. It should be blasé, really, for Dick, but hell. He takes that as an excuse to give another quick once-over, taking in the suit (mahogany-red) and the imperfectly slicked back, overgrown hair (rust-red). Slightly uneven teeth. Freckled, down to the line of his jaw and the crooked bridge of his nose. Handsome like a steep cliff with a hell of a view and a fifty feet fall to open water. Dick looks away.

“I don’t think so, no,” Dick says evenly, after a deliberate pause. The stranger nods with a pursed lips, falsely thoughtful. “That’s a shame,” he says, “I don’t know any of these people. A friendly face would help.”

Dick raises a brow. “Not one?” It’s an invite-only Gala.

“Nope,” His eyes, Dick noticed, never strayed from him. It’s a bit jarring. “Do you?”

“Of course.” 

“Oh,” the stranger says like he is mildly disappointed. “And here I thought you needed company.” To Dick’s unamused look, he adds, “You didn’t seem like you enjoyed yourself, is all. Forgive my assumption.” And then: “Are you sure we never met before?”

Ah, what the hell. Draw, aim, and — “Yes,” Dick says, coolly, the corner of his lips offer the slightest impression of a smirk. “Would’ve remembered your face if we had.” He makes sure his tone arch enough to deliver the implication. 

For a moment, the stranger stares, wide, like he hadn’t expected that. And then his face breaks into a full-fledged grin. “'Suppose this is the part where I introduce myself, eh?” he offers his hand, and Dick takes it. His grip just the right amount of firm — events like these are where men usually enact minuscule power plays, Dick knows, but apparently not him — his palm is calloused. His fingers, very calloused. 

“Dick Grayson.”

“Jay Gatsby.” 

A beat passes, where Dick struggles — and then he barks a genuine laugh. “You’re laughing, but I’m not the one with the, you know, phallic name here —” Dick helplessly barks another laugh, and attempts to stifle it gracefully with the back of his hand.

“I am not calling you that,” Dick says when he’s done.

“No?”

“No.”

“You don’t think I’m a Jay Gatsby?”

Dick doesn’t even think about it. “You’re no Jay Gatsby.”

The stranger, Not-Jay Gatsby, considers it, rubbing the heel of his palm to his chin in an easy, boyish movement. “I never did like his character. Think he’s —” he looks around, exaggeratedly, as if checking if anyone is listening. Satisfied with their privacy, he puts up a hand and mock whispers, “an _ass_.”

Dick finds it difficult to keep a straight face, but, clearing his throat, he manages. “Are you trying to impress me with — “ Dick shakes his head, incredulous. “ _Jay Gatsby character analysis_?” as an ass, he does not add.

“Depends. Does it work?” 

Dick shakes his head, but not as an answer. “What are you, bored?”

“C’mon,” Not-Jay Gatsby gestures, with a careless wave of his hand — the one holding the flute. “There are gold plated hors d'oeuvres. There is a Matisse over there that I’m _pretty sure_ is real. We are attending — yet _another_ charity gala. The third one this month, no?” he pauses to take a sip, and frown. “This champagne is shit. You are, however — with all due respect — a gorgeous man. In case you haven’t noticed — hopefully not the case — I myself, am a _gorgeous man_. Would you blame me?”

“Charming,” Dick says, amused, and derisive. “Bit pessimistic, are you?”

“Nah,” he downs the champagne and sets the glass away. His now two free hands tucked away in the pocket of his trousers. On anyone else, that kind of body language exhibits insecurity; but he merely looks _true_. No other way to describe it. He looks as comfortable to one’s skin as one can be. Contradictorily humble, as well as candid it’s almost uncomfortable to see. His suit is indubitably expensive but carelessly worn, his shirt looks like it’s tucked as an afterthought. No tie. “I am _nothing_ if not an optimist, as you can see with my pursuing this conversation. So, business, or pleasure?” it’s almost crude enough to be charming.

“Business,” Dick says, just to see the glint in the stranger’s eyes, like a sniper’s scope, a bowstring drawn taut. 

“Oh, what a coincidence,” that grin returns. “Me too.”

“Really? What kind of business?”

“Oh, you know,” Not-Jay Gatsby shrugs humbly. “Tax evasion, campaign fraud, the lot. It’s a _charity foundation_ , after all.”

Dick opens his mouth, and closes it again, pushing down a stupid smile. He nods sagely, after unsuccessfully not-smiling, “philanthropy, am I right?”

“Yeah. What a _drag_. You?”

“Oh, you know,” Dick looks out to the crowd. Pretty people in a pretty place eating pretty food and drinking shit champagne. Live orchestra in the background, starting to play a rendition of _Dream a Little Dream of Me_. _Star shining right above you…_ “All sort of things. Nothing _too_ out in the light, you know what I mean?”

“Ah, you are a _behind the scene_ kind of guy, huh? Could’ve fooled me.”

“How so?” Dick looks, and their eyes meet. Dick holds the stare on purpose. A subtle challenge. 

The man breaks contact, after a while, and looks down. “Well,” he pauses, tilts his head, timid all of a sudden. “That was an intro to a pick-up line,” he admits sadly. “That I now — ahem— _realize_ , is too..”

“Shitty?” Dick suggests.

“ _Tasteless_ ,” he corrects, weakly defensive. “But it’s the thought that counts?” he smiles hopefully. Dick finds it stupidly dear.

“I appreciate the thought,” Dick accommodates kindly.

“Thank you, I am trying very hard. A little too hard,” the stranger sighs. “I was about to pull out some quotes to make me sound smart. Shakespeare or Orwell, maybe.”

Dick shakes his head, hopelessly and entirely charmed. Endeared, even. “You’re hopeless,” Dick accuses, because he is a hypocrite sometimes, even when he tries his best.

“You’re right, Shakespeare’s overrated.”

“ _Take_ that back,” Dick says as if scandalized.

“Orwell was an ass,” this, Dick will not argue, but then — ”really, Shakespeare should’ve _stick_ to the funny ones. Hamlet? Yawn — _ouch, hey._ Whoa, that’s assault. Really, that hurt.”

Dick rolls his eyes. It was barely a nudge. “Right.”

“Dunno why you’re so worked up, I bet you don’t even _like_ Shakespeare.”

Really. “Bet, then,” Dick says, and there is that look again, a split second of astonished silence like he hadn’t expected Dick’s response — or more accurately, to be indulged — and another split second after of unabashed pleasure for said indulgence. 

“Alright. I bet I can guess what _stuff_ you like,” he says cheekily, suddenly bold again.

Dick nods, lips pursed, pretending to consider it. “Sure.”

“What’s on the table?” the stranger prods. 

“What would you like?” Dick shoots back. 

“A date,” the stranger says, immediately, like this is what he had in mind from the second he set eyes on Dick. Dick knows.

Dick hums, and rejects rather gently, “I’m a busy man.”

The stranger’s shoulders deflate. If it’s an act, it’s a good one. He looks _sad_. “Oh?”

“I work late hours,” Dick explains regretfully. 

“I’m sure we can find the time,” this is said with a desperate note. 

“Oh, I don’t know.” Unfortunately, Dick works _very_ late hours.

The stranger thinks hard. Brows pinching, rust-red. Champagne forgotten on his left hand, and his right, slides unthinkingly through his hair (Dick eyes it, but discreetly, in a moment of indulgence). He snaps his fingers, suddenly. “What about a dance, then?” Dick blinks. His heart jumps.

“Right here?”

“Right now.”

“I’m not here for pleasure,” Dick reminds him — and also himself. He _isn’t_ here for pleasure. And yet. The orchestra is reaching the final verse: _sweet dreams, till sunbeams find you_ — _gotta keep dreaming leave all worries behind you._

“I promise you,” the stranger begins, and licks his lips — again with that little pause, a moment of nervous hesitation, like he is bracing for a rejection. It’s awfully sweet, so awful, it’s breaking Dick’s heart. “The pleasure is all _mine_.”

The song ends, and the orchestra starts again: _fly me to the moon…_ Dick shakes his head. “You’re something else,” ah, what the hell. “Deal."

“Really?” the stranger blinks, genuinely surprised. Amazed, even. It’s _sweet_. Dick feels like a schoolboy attending prom for the first time, that’s how stupid he’s rendered to be at the moment.

“Really.” As if he could ever refuse.

“Oh,” he says, again, with the amount of disbelief of someone who just struck the lottery with a ticket he found on the streets. “What do _you_ get?”

Dick considers this, and shrugs. “I’d lose a nuisance,” he says, coolly indifferent; but his smile betrays the sentiment. “And get on with business.”

“Ouch,” the stranger holds his heart as if he’s been stabbed. “Hey, a guy gotta try, though.”

Dick, again, raises a brow. He knows this is a powerful move. “Then try.” 

The man — the _absolute_ stranger, actually — stares. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and opens his mouth again. “You are,” he pauses. His voice is hoarse all of a sudden. “ _Damn_ , you are fucking gorgeous, do you even know that,” he settles finally, breathless, like he has no other words. This is also said with a note of desperation, and a hint of — well, _more_ desperation, really. 

“Flattery brings you nowhere,” Dick warns, but he is smiling. Has been for a while now, probably. Can’t help it.

“Well, alright then, I’m no _world’s best detective_ , but,” clears throat. His voice is pinched low, deadly serious. “I am _very good_ at astrology.”

Christ. “ _Really_.”

“ _Really_ ,” he nods. “It’s a wonder. It’s a talent, actually.”

“Incredible.”

“Just so. Right. You know, someone’s star sign says a lot about them. Like, what kind of person they are. Their financial security — which I wouldn’t discuss with you, that’d be rude — their love life, their, like, their favorite M&M’s color — yours is red, by the way — ”

Dick’s smile must be splitting his face now. “Red?”

“Yes, you’re a _red person_ , I can tell. Their luck, their health, their, uh, their like, their favorite, uhh art movement — ”

“ _Art movement_?” 

“Yes. Stop laughing, I’m being serious. I can give you an example. Like — “ finger snap. “Like Cancers.” 

“Right.”

“They love Cubism.”

“Right.”

“Because Cancers are assholes, and — stop laughing, I said — they are assholes. Lex Luthor is a Cancer, did you know? Anyways — ”

“You are _unbelievable_.”

“You’re just a pessimist,” he says testily. “I believe in myself very much, mind you. I’m an _optimist_.”

“Alright,” Dick sobers. “What about Scorpios? What do they like?”

“Scorpios, for them, it’s,” he says, slowly, and pauses. “Art with intent,” he decides. 

“I see,” Dick nods somberly. “Jay Gatsby is probably not a Scorpio.”

“Shush you,” he puts up a pointer finger to Dick’s lips, few inches away from contact. “I’m the expert here,” he says, and obviously relishing in the way Dick flusters with the gesture. “While we are at it, Scorpios also have a penchant for animated Japanese films. This is not a joke. Anyway. Here, I can guess what sign you are just by looking at you,” and then he does, he looks at Dick which an intensity that would make a girl blush. But not Dick. Really, not Dick. “Sagittarius,” he announces, and Dick raises both eyebrows. “No? Well, I’d meant Scorpio.” Dick sighs and shakes his head in faux disappointment. “Wait, wait, wait, no, that’s not what I — ah! Of course. _Pisces._ Of course, that’s what I’d meant all along. First day of spring,” he does that thing where he rubs his chin thoughtfully, fingers brushing the five o’clock shadow. Dick finds himself staring for the umpteenth time. “Your kind of art would be … _Medieval art_.”

“You are,” Dick pauses — for dramatic effect only, for both of them knows the end result of this game they are playing. “Correct. I am absolutely in love with Medieval art.”

“I know,” smug ass.

“However,” Dick intones, “this was not the bargain.”

“Yes, of course,” the stranger’s face turns serious again, after briefly lighting up in light of his victory. And then, “‘ _stately_ ,’” he begins, with the conviction of a winner, and a daredevil smile. Handsome like a steep cliff with a hell of a view and a fifty feet fall to open water in an especially _sweltering_ summer. “‘ _Plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead..’_ ”

Dick never had a chance. “Gee,” Dick smiles to himself. “Who would’ve guessed. You _got_ me.”

“I _got_ you,” Roy agrees, and offers his calloused hand. His smile is so big, it crinkles his eyes, and knocks Dick’s breath right out of him. “May I have this dance, Mr. Grayson?”

In the background, the chorus sings to a crescendo, _in other words, please be true, in other words.._

“Yes, Mr. Harper. Yes, you may.”

**Author's Note:**

> Medieval Art is not (exactly) an art movement.  
> https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/politics/georgeosborne/9195571/Wealthiest-people-abusing-tax-system-with-donations-to-charities-that-dont-do-charitable-work.html
> 
> [tumblr](https://i-just-want-to-destroy.tumblr.com)


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